


House of Sorrow

by Selina Novella (SilverThistle)



Category: American Horror Story, Murder House - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Murder House, Sentient architecture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverThistle/pseuds/Selina%20Novella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events of 1922 to 1926 from the perspective of the most innocent of observers - The House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Sorrow

_“Have you ever owned a house this old? It has a personality, feelings. Mistreat it and you will regret it.” Moira O’Hara Pilot_

 

                She was meant to be a child born of love. Each feature, each window, each door, each light chosen to please her creators love. To match same shade as her eyes. He would speak to her as he built her, carving her pieces with love and care, about his darling Nora, and the children that would come to live in her warm rooms. She would be a home full of light and love and laughter. And so she waited, anticipating the arrival of her mistress who her master assured her would adore her, would treasure her.

                And she came! And for a time all was wonderful. Mistress Nora had many friends, and enjoyed showing them around the house. And there were servants who tended to the houses every need, no floor went unwaxed, no window unwashed, no doorknob unpolished. And soon the laughter of a baby joined the house, little Charles jr, and She was neglected a little, some corners gathered a bit of dust, but that was alright. Her family was growing and would soon be so happy!

                But…they weren’t happy. Little Charlie would cry for his mother, and pretty Nora grew angry and ugly and would scream at the servants and there would be a new face in the uniforms every few weeks. And Master began to do things, horrible things, deep in Her depths to get away from the screaming and the yelling, the crying. The things he did involved bad smelling liquids, and dead things, and many many jars. It felt dirty and wrong and the house was sure something was wrong, but the Master didn’t talk to her anymore, no one did. And weeks would go by before someone would remember to scrub her nice floors with the vinegar mix that made them stay so nice and shiny.

                Then Mistress started bringing new friends home. But they didn’t stop and comment how pretty She was. They were all upset, crying or angry and would slip through the halls like sad shadows. Mistress Nora would bring them downstairs to Master, and then they would fall asleep on the funny chair that the house decided was ugly and cold. Then the Master would begin to poke and prod the girls and then the blood would begin to pour all over her foundation, seeping into the cracks and crannies and leaving a bad smell and rust colored stains. She didn’t like that at all.

She tried to ignore what occurred downstairs and focus on the baby’s room. Little Charlie was such a beautiful little boy. She wished her Masters would spend time with their little one. Sometimes she tried to play with him, soft lullabies sung to her perfect pink human brother, with the soft sounds of her boards creaking, the wind sighing through her chimney. Mistress Nora complained bitterly over dinner about the noise, but it made Charlie so happy, and he so rarely smiled anymore, the house decided, just this once, to ignore Miss Nora’s orders.

Life was harder than it had been. She wasn’t loved, she was resented by Miss Nora, and by Master for not pleasing his wife and it broke her heart, but she still had had Charlie, and sometimes they remembered to keep her, to sweep and dust and paint and wash. And maybe Master would one day wash away the blood stains and she would be all clean and new, and Charlie would get married and have children and live in her and be happy. That was her dearest wish.

But it was not to be. She was helpless as the man climbed the ladder into Charlies room. How the ragged man, stinking of alcohol and profound sorrow and anger took her helpless babe away with him. She tried to shake, to do something, but the soft whispers of the curtains, the creaks of the floor boards, and even when, desperate for help she managed to slam a door, all the sounds were ignored. The house wept in her heart, and waited for someone to realize that the greatest treasure was gone.

It took only an hour, but it felt far too long for the house. The telephone had rung, and Mistress had answered it. When she raced up to the nursery and screamed, She felt such a mix of triumph and grief. There was talk of a ransom, of money being exchanged. But they had not seen the man as the house had. That man was not after money. He wanted to cause pain, and in the depths of her basement the blood stains burned like a brand.

Nothing in her young life could have prepared her for what arrived with the men in the jars. She knew what her Master did, but those creatures were already so still and lifeless, so small and limp and rarely looked like much of anything. But when the jars were presented to her Master at her front door she was shaken from attic to foundation. Her little boy, Charlie, Charles Jr, he was in pieces, like a horrible bloody jigsaw puzzle and for the first time the house understood death and her heart broke into tiny sharp pieces, a window in the upstairs shattering, trying to release this pain and confusion and hurt and anger. Mistress Nora’s scream matched her own feelings, and she wished she and her Mistress could mourn together… had she been less upset, she would have been fearful for the look on her Masters face.

Master said he would put Charlie back together again, so that they could have a proper burial. Mistress Nora was so horrified by the pieces of her baby that she agreed, after getting a promise from him to do nothing else, to leave their poor son alone in his death. Master had nodded distractedly, and the House shuddered in fear.

It was monstrous. Her little Charlie was being turned into a demon, like the pictures one of the servants had in her book that she prayed with every day. Bits and pieces from every jar, every experiment the Master had attempted, was violently sown into what had been soft pink skin and was now white, cold and hard. Focused on the perfection he saw in his mind, her master corrupted and profaned the only good he had left. The house tried to keep her mistress out of the basement, but stuck doors and distracting noises only worked so long, and she watched as the tiny white nightgown delicately embroidered with seed pearls fell from senseless fingers as she was overcome with horror and fainted.

Master tied her Mistress in the bad chair, so that she couldn’t interfere, and then continued with his horrible work. When she came to Mistress Nora screamed and screamed, cursed and threatened, begged and pleaded but Master ignored her like she wasn’t even there. When had a home of love and laughter become a factory for death and madness?

It was done. He’d somehow ripped Charlie through the veil, back into the mockery of a body he’d created for him. But it wasn’t as he planned. Charlie was wild and vicious, his sharp teeth had fastened onto his creators wrist and screams and blood and human meat were flying through the air, and Mistress was hysterical, and it was all the house could do to knock over a jar on the edge of the shelf behind her shattering it and giving her Mistress a way to cut through her bonds unstopped by her husband.

Mistress Nora ran past the demonic tableau of monster and creator in desperate clawing frenzy,  her screams joining the din, through the passage, up the rough wooden stairs, through the opening door at the top of the basement stairs, slamming it shut and slamming herself against the door, desperately fiddling with the locks until key found key hole and latch was barred. She collapsed, panting, tears streaming, her hands in her once lovely hair pulling at it in mental agony. The house wished then, more than anything to comfort her mistress, and offered soft groans of sorrow and pity, of shared horror and sadness, desperately focusing on her Mistress and away from the events continuing in the basement.

But Mistress Nora froze hearing the groans of the house, eyes wide and terrified like a wild animal, she scuttled backwards away from the door toward the study next door, glancing about wildly in fear. She went to the desk and opened the locked compartment, hands’ shaking like leafs. The House was concerned; she had never seen what was in the locked compartment. Then Nora removed an object She didn’t recognize, it was long and made of metal, shiny and She didn’t like it. She was distracted for a minute, as the sounds from downstairs had stopped, and She chanced focusing on the events unfolding there. Her view was red, the walls were covered in blood, and growls and grunts came from the blurry figure that was certainly eating the corpse of their shared maker.  She hurriedly returned focus to the study, desperate to protect, to save at least one of her family, but Mistress was busy with the shiny thing, she was putting the open end in her mouth and closing her eyes, and the House gave a soft whine of confusion and concern, not wanting to further spook her already frightened Mistress. The bullet passed through Nora’s skull and into the ceiling behind her.

The House stood, alone, feared and occupied only by the shadows of her loved ones. She welcomed the sag of the roof and water damage. She was made to be a home, and instead was turned into a cemetery. She made no move to stop the damage to herself as people entered and exited, she did not want a new family, not when one of them was still in her basement feeding off any life he could get his small clawed hands into. No, her purpose was only to take care of her family, and that meant keeping her little demon-child where he wouldn’t hurt himself, or anyone else ever again.  It was her fault, she felt, and the darkness, despair and loneliness, fed on Her sorrow and slowly turned to tortured madness, leaving only a shadow of the young House who wanted only to have light and laughter and joy inside her rooms.

 

And then, twenty years later a young woman and her fiancé moved in on the eve of their wedding day…


End file.
